All the Wrong Places
by aces
Summary: A Jules Verne / Doctor Who crossover (I had to do it, alright?)


At last I have done it! My very own Secret Adventures of Jules Verne/Doctor Who crossover, complete with a companion I made up (it's the 8th Doctor by the way; I'm not following any timeline laid down by the BBC books). I own none of the characters (well, except for that companion I suppose), historical figures, settings, etc; I'm merely writing this for entertainment purposes and expect no payment. Any inconsistencies or plot holes are indeed my own fault; I apologize ahead of time and hope you aren't too annoyed by them. Just enjoy yourself when you read it please. ;-)  
  
All the Wrong Places  
  
"No," Jules frowned, staring down at his notebook. "No, that won't do at all." He sighed and started scratching out the words he'd just written with his pen.  
  
He glanced up at the sky, his face twisted into a scowl as he thought. He really ought to go back to his room to work on the story; the sunlight had already faded, twilight was setting in, and the lights outside one of his favorite cafes weren't particularly bright enough for writing. Going inside the cafe itself was out of the question; too noisy for any hope of concentration. Still, it was a beautiful evening, and he was settled comfortably...he could wait a while longer before going home with his work. It wasn't like the lighting in his garret would be that much better.  
  
"It's a wonderful night, isn't it?" a soft voice said, and Jules bolted up again in surprise. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," the voice went on. It belonged to a man in a frockcoat, closer to Phileas Fogg's age than Verne's, standing near Jules's table and smiling.  
  
"It's all right," Jules said, "I just didn't see you there. Please..." he gestured to another seat at the table, fumbling to move his things out of the way. "Sit down, monsieur."  
  
"You're sure?" The man sounded English, but with a slightly foreign quality to his accent, as if he were well traveled and hadn't seen his homeland in a while. He had an intelligent face and sad blue eyes, and his coat had the shabby air of a bohemian. Jules took an instant liking to his quiet aura. "I don't want to trouble you."  
  
"Please," Jules smiled. "I don't mind at all."  
  
The man sat down across from Jules, looking over the Frenchman's paraphernalia curiously. "I'm Jules Verne," Jules said. "I don't believe I've seen you here before, sir."  
  
The man half-smiled. "No, I'm just passing through," he replied. "I'm meeting up with some friends soon. May I?" he added, looking from the notebook to Jules's face expectantly.  
  
"Oh, uh..." Jules stalled. "It's not really ready for anyone to read..."  
  
"Oh." The man looked so disappointed, Jules relented. "It's a very rough draft," he warned, sliding the notebook across. "And not very good, I'm afraid..."  
  
The man was already rapidly scanning the few pages Jules had written of his new play. "On the contrary, Monsieur Verne," the man said at last, looking up at Jules with a warm smile. "You have great talent." He handed the Frenchman back his book. "I look forward to reading your work when it's published."  
  
Jules blushed. "Thank you, sir. I'm glad you think I'll get that far."  
  
"I know you will." There was such certainty in his voice that Jules studied the strange man anew. He met Jules's gaze squarely for an instant, a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and then he glanced up, above the Parisian buildings surrounding them. Jules followed his gaze and saw the full moon. A smile instantly spread itself across his young face; the other man looked down again and caught the enchanted look. He smiled softly to himself.  
  
"I've always wanted to go to the moon," Jules said dreamily. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he sat up, blushing, damning himself. But the other man wasn't jeering at him, surprisingly.  
  
"I'm sure you'll get there somehow, Monsieur Verne, someday," was all the stranger said.  
  
Jules shook his head in confusion, smiling at the man because it was impossible not to smile at him. "Who are you?" he asked curiously.  
  
The man held his hand out across the table, and Jules shook it. "I'm a Doctor," he grinned widely, "and it was a very great pleasure to meet you. May I look you up, if I'm ever in Paris again?"  
  
Jules was mildly surprised. "I suppose so," he half-shrugged. "Though why you would want to..."  
  
The doctor smiled secretively. "You never can tell," he said. "Good luck with your writing," he added as he stood up. He paused, then leant forward conspiratorially. "Have you ever thought about writing fiction, rather than plays? Might be worth looking into."  
  
"Thank you, I'll consider it," Jules replied, smiling and mystified. "It was a pleasure to meet you as well, Doctor."  
  
The doctor bowed his head and walked away. Jules watched him go curiously, the entire odd encounter replaying through his head. A strange man, he decided, but kind.  
  
He wondered if he ever would see the man again.  
  
six months later...  
  
Jules woke up.  
  
It was a gentle process; he was barely aware of the transition between waking and sleeping as he stared up at the ceiling. The ceiling that seemed too far away. And it didn't look very familiar either. Yet he was quite sure he'd gone to sleep in his own bed last night.  
  
Jules sprang upright and clutched his head, groaning and suddenly dizzy. He'd been drugged. Again. He was in a dungeon, or a cell, or whatever other word meant he was being held in a dark, ugly room against his will. Again.  
  
When Fogg hears about this, he thought to himself, he will give me the lecture of a lifetime. It comforted Jules to think that way. At least he'd be alive and safe enough to be lectured.  
  
Of course, he hadn't seen either of the cousins in over a month. Not since they'd left him in Paris to recuperate more fully from their time in Africa and go back to university (he'd neglected his education too long, he had to reluctantly admit). He hadn't written them any letters, either. He kept putting it off, finding something else to distract himself with and keep him busy. He wasn't entirely sure why he was avoiding his friends. Perhaps it was in part a desire to reassert his independence. Perhaps he didn't want to get his friends hurt--or more likely, frustrated--by having to protect him all the time. Perhaps he just wanted to protect himself for once.  
  
Not that he'd done a very good job of it. The last thing he remembered before waking up here was falling asleep in his garret, too exhausted to change into night clothes, not bothering even to take off shoes or waistcoat. They'd taken him out of his own bed for God's sake.  
  
I'm not safe anywhere anymore he realized with a shudder. He knew who'd kidnapped him, of course. Who else would?  
  
Jules did the only thing he could. He waited.  
  
* * *  
  
Marc couldn't keep a grin off her face.  
  
Who needs Western Civ classes when you've got a working time machine? she asked herself jauntily as she picked her way down the cobblestone street, trailing behind the Doctor. She'd even gotten used to the smell of this Victorian-era Paris. She was, unfortunately, still getting used to the full skirts. At least she'd found some fairly comfortable boots in the TARDIS wardrobe that didn't look too out-of-fashion to her admittedly inexperienced eye.  
  
The Doctor had found her in the TARDIS library a few hours ago, reading Paris in the Twentieth Century by Jules Verne, and he'd immediately grinned and asked if she wanted to meet the author. Of course Marc had jumped at the chance of meeting a forefather of science-fiction. Especially if it meant seeing Paris in the nineteenth century. Perhaps she could persuade the Doctor to put the TARDIS into dry dock for a month or three, so they could explore more of the European continent. Get over to England and say hi to H.G. Wells while they were about it...well, depending on when they had landed in France. She had a feeling they might be too early for him, but she wasn't entirely sure when he had been around.  
  
And now here she was, hoping that her backpack was more curious and conspicuous than her extremely short black hair. The Doctor had complained about the accessory she always carried on her shoulder, but she wasn't about to leave the TARDIS without a book or two, a notebook and pencil, and a change of clothes. No matter how thoroughly anachronistic it all was. And it was getting fairly late in the day; the streetlights wouldn't be able to distinguish that much peculiarity about her appearance. She hoped.  
  
The Time Lord was taking her to a cafe he knew Verne frequented at this time of his life. He'd muttered something about being too early, but Marc hadn't been paying much attention--and she didn't really care anyway, as just being in this city was all too new and cool. She wished the Doctor would slow down a little. He wasn't giving her enough time for a proper look round.  
  
She felt somebody's hand on her arm, pulling her down an empty side street. "My dear!" a man said, a smile wreathing his face. He wore an odd blue uniform that Marc didn't recognize from any of her history textbooks, but it was hard to make out in the fading light, and there were no streetlamps in this deserted alleyway. "So good to see you again!"  
  
"Uh..." Marc tried to pull out of the man's grip, craning her neck back for a glimpse of the Doctor. He'd gone on, not realizing she'd been detained. "I'm sorry, you've got the wrong person..."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, my mistake." The man was still smiling, still holding her arm. Two or three more men, in long white coats and with odd contraptions strapped onto their faces, were stepping out of the shadows and surrounding Marc and the uniformed stranger.  
  
Marc's heart stopped when she realized what was happening. "Let me go," she stated, keeping her voice cold and calm, even as she tried to struggle out of the man's grip. Her backpack was sliding down her shoulder, but that was the least of her worries.  
  
The man's awful smile widened. He could feel her shivering through his grip on her arm. "I don't think so," he said. "You see, Count Gregory is interested in your friend. And his box. So you are going to be our guest for a while."  
  
Marc managed to get out one good squawk before he clamped something over her mouth and she passed out.  
  
* * *  
  
"I'm afraid you might be in for a disappointment, Marc," the Doctor was saying as he threaded his way through a crowded street of other pedestrians. "We really are too early in the century; Monsieur Verne hasn't had any of his novels published yet--" He turned around to smile apologetically at his companion. She wasn't there.  
  
The Doctor frowned. "Marc?" he called, hunting through the passersby. He couldn't see that distinctive short black haircut anywhere. "Marc?!" He started back the way he'd come, checking every side street and store front.  
  
He heard a muffled holler, cut short, in a very recognizable American accent, just a little ahead of him. He ran down the street back the way he'd come, turned down the nearest alley.  
  
Nothing. Except Marc's backpack.  
  
"Oh no," he breathed simply, kneeling down by the backpack. He picked it up, held it in his lap, looked it over. Who would do this? He hadn't had a chance to do anything yet to merit somebody's attention. So which of his enemies would be in Paris in this time period, prepared for his possible arrival? Why?  
  
There were no helpful clues. Not even a note from a triumphant enemy, giving him a rendezvous and an ultimatum. The Doctor shrugged the backpack over his shoulder and headed for the TARDIS. Perhaps he could run a few scans from the console, check out any unusual energy signatures that would indicate a spaceship in the area, or any other complex technology beyond this era's abilities...  
  
The TARDIS was gone.  
  
The Doctor quickly searched the surrounding alleys and boulevards, in case he had the wrong street. But he already knew he wasn't lost.  
  
"Losing your companion could be forgiven, if you get her back quickly enough," the Doctor muttered to himself grimly as he stalked down a narrow and gloomy Parisian street. "Losing your companion and your TARDIS so absent-mindedly smacks as dangerous carelessness."  
  
Now what could he do? He'd never spent much time here, in this era. But he had spent some little time in England in this time period...  
  
Jules Verne. He would find the author as he'd originally intended. Only instead of an evening spent with him in a bohemian bistro, he'd ask the author for help. The young man knew Phileas Fogg by now; surely the Secret Service agent could use his contacts to help him track down Marc and his ship, even if Fogg had quit the Service by now. There was always a way. The Doctor just had to keep hoping.  
  
He couldn't find Jules Verne either. The writer seemed to have completely disappeared from Paris, no matter how thoroughly the Doctor searched or who he asked for information.  
  
"This is getting ridiculous!" the Doctor cried in exasperation.  
  
* * *  
  
The door to Jules's cell burst open. He jumped up, wondering if it was the stupidest thing he'd ever considered if he tried to escape now, alone and unarmed and probably surrounded by guards.  
  
He didn't get the chance to find out. Two League men with cortical lobe studs entered the room, carrying a young woman between them. Two more guards stood in the doorway, watching Jules impassively. The others dropped the girl on the disgustingly dirty, thin mattress in the far corner of the room, the one Jules had woken up on earlier. Jules looked between the door and the girl, confused and curious and unable to repress his fear. And then all four men left the room, slamming the door behind them. Jules knew at least one of them was still standing guard outside.  
  
Jules muttered a short curse word in French, then headed for the girl on the cot. He knelt down, studying her, wondering if there was something he should do.  
  
She was young, definitely no older than he, possibly not even quite twenty. She was striking too, if not beautiful like Rebecca Fogg or some of the other women Jules had met in his life. Her hair was incredibly short, deep black and silky straight, going no lower than the tips of her ears. Her skin was very white, cheekbones prominent in her face, and she was dressed in what looked to him like an expensive dress (but he freely admitted he knew little about fashion, let alone women's fashion). She seemed to be sleeping peacefully. She'd probably been given the same drug as he.  
  
Who was she? Why was she here? What did the League of Darkness want with her? Jules had never seen her before, but that didn't mean much. The League was always looking out for new people to take control of. Jules didn't know how long he could wait for answers from the girl and wondered if he could wake her up safely. He hadn't had anyone to talk to for a couple days now; he was going mad from the silence.  
  
Her eyelids fluttered. Jules tried to control his excitement as he whispered, "Are you all right, miss?"  
  
Her eyes flew open. "Get off me, you bastard!" she yelled, flinging her fist up at Jules's face. He stumbled backwards just in time to avoid being hit.  
  
"Hey!" he cried, shocked by her violent actions and words. "I didn't even touch you!"  
  
"Oh gawd," she groaned, a hand to her forehead, her eyes squeezed shut. "I'm gonna be sick."  
  
"Please don't," Jules answered hastily, getting back up to his knees. "I'm not sure they'd clean it up."  
  
The girl opened her eyes again and stared up at Jules, wide-eyed. "Oh crap," she said, horrified. "I'm so sorry. Did I hit you? I--"  
  
Jules smiled and helped her sit up, a hand on her shoulder. He hoped she'd forgive him the impropriety. "It's all right," he replied, "you missed."  
  
"Thank goodness." She smiled back sheepishly. "I didn't know where I was; I thought you were the guy who grabbed me." She got her first good look at the dank cell they were imprisoned in and her face fell. There were no windows; a couple torches placed in the stone walls were the only source of illumination. "Where are we?" she asked.  
  
"I don't know," Jules sighed. "I woke up here, just like you did, a couple days ago...I think. Time loses its meaning." He hadn't been wearing his fob watch when they took him. "But I'm pretty sure we're still in France." I hope he added bleakly to himself.  
  
A peculiar look was settling itself on the girl's face as Jules watched her. She had turquoise eyes, a color and depth Jules had never seen before. And she spoke with a slightly startling American accent--more northern than southern, Jules hoped, though he wasn't entirely certain. He hadn't heard an accent like that since traveling in the United States. She gulped. And Jules suddenly recognized that look--it'd taken him a while, because usually he was the one wearing it.  
  
"It's all right," he said quickly, taking her hand and squeezing it in reassurance. "You're alive, you're well, and you're..." he trailed off; he couldn't very well tell her she was safe, when she so obviously wasn't. "What's your name?" he changed the subject, hoping to distract her.  
  
"Marc," she said dully. Then she seemed to rouse herself and held her hand out. "Marc Davis. What's yours?"  
  
Jules awkwardly shook her hand, somehow finding the polite gesture of introduction very odd in the circumstances. "Jules Verne," he managed to smile, then frowned in bemusement. "Marc? That's an unusual--name..." Her eyes had widened; she was staring at him, causing him to fumble his words. "Miss Davis?" he asked uncertainly.  
  
"You're Jules Verne?" she asked. She ran a critical eye over him; he hoped he wasn't blushing as he nodded. A grin crossed her face, and then she began laughing. "The Doc wasn't kidding. You're a helluva lot younger than I expected," she told him devastatingly. "Jules--Jules Verne!" Her giggles were becoming hysterical.  
  
"Miss Davis?" Jules really didn't need a madwoman in his cell on top of everything else.  
  
She stopped laughing abruptly, a secretive smirk still lurking on her face, threatening to break into giggles all over again. "I'm sorry," she told him sincerely. "I'm very sorry. It's just...such a coincidence..." She managed to control herself with difficulty this time.  
  
"A coincidence?" Jules frowned. The stress of the situation must be getting to her, he decided. He sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to slap her to break her out of it.  
  
Marc nodded, brushing a strand of glossy black hair out of her eyes. "Yes. My friend and I went to Paris to see you--the Doctor!" She stood up abruptly, almost pulling Jules's arm off in the process. Only then did either of them notice they were still holding hands. They looked at each other sheepishly.  
  
Jules stood up as well. "The Doctor?" he repeated. He was feeling dizzy again. He had no clue where this bizarre conversation with this young woman was going. "You were coming to see me?"  
  
"Yes, but where's the Doctor?" Marc asked him urgently. She looked ready to start shaking him. "Did those--men," she bit off whatever word she'd originally intended, "take him too? Or is he still in Paris?"  
  
"For all I know, we're still in Paris," Jules reminded her. "Who's this Doctor...?" Jules frowned, a memory from some months before tugging at him gently.  
  
"He said he'd met you before," Marc said. "Er...British, with curly brown hair and blue eyes?"  
  
The memory was still fuzzy. "I had a conversation with a man who called himself a doctor," Jules said, "a few months back. He fits that description. He seemed very kind."  
  
Marc smiled wryly, at odds with the pained look on her face. "He can be. And he's probably our only ticket out of here."  
  
Jules sat down, slumping against the wall, depressed by the inadvertent reminder of his own resourceful friends. "I hope he can get us out of here," he brooded, "as my friends probably aren't even worried that I'm gone."  
  
Marc sat down next to him, and he felt comforted at the warmth of another human being nearby. "That sounds horrible," she said in a soft voice with a frown.  
  
Jules looked rueful. "I think I'm giving you the wrong impression. It's not that my friends don't care, it's just that the people I know in Paris probably think I dropped everything and went off to London. I've done that a lot lately. The people I know in London probably think I'm still safely in Paris." He clenched a fist, wishing there was some way he could relieve some of his frustration. He couldn't even write anything down in his notebook, as that had also been left in his garret. He hoped...he'd rather it been left there than in the League's hands. "If only Rebecca and Phileas knew where I was, then I'd be certain we could get out of here."  
  
"Phileas? Phileas Fogg?" Marc interrupted, wide-eyed again.  
  
"Y-yes," Jules replied, a bit disoriented by the derailment of his thoughts.  
  
"Doc didn't tell me he was real." The muttered words seemed to be more to herself than him. "Let me guess--Passepartout's also around somewhere?"  
  
"Well, yes." Now Jules was downright confused. "Presumably with Fogg."  
  
"So who's Rebecca?"  
  
"Fogg's cousin," he replied, giving up on making sense of anything at the moment.  
  
"Huh." Marc shook her head, rousing herself. "Sorry, I interrupted you. You think your friends could help us escape?"  
  
"I'm sure of it," Jules said firmly. He smiled self-mockingly. "They've had to do it often enough before."  
  
"And what does that mean?" Marc asked with a lop-sided half-smile.  
  
"It means they have a tendency to get into dangerous situations. And it means I have a tendency to get locked up."  
  
Marc, surprisingly, laughed. "It's okay," she told him in a warm voice. "It happens to me too."  
  
Jules looked up at her in surprise and then found himself laughing with her. He felt a little better afterwards. He wasn't so alone after all.  
  
* * *  
  
The Doctor was grateful he'd remembered to give Marc some money and had stuffed some francs into his own pockets before leaving the TARDIS. It was ironically lucky that Marc had lost her backpack--he needed the extra money to get passage across the English Channel.  
  
He had enjoyed his trip across France and the Channel, despite his worry for both his companion and his ship. And now he was standing on the doorstep of No. 7 Saville Row, London, waiting for somebody--Jean Passepartout perhaps?--to open the door. The London evening was cool and wet, the sky threatening more than just the current sprinkle of rain that misted through the streetlamps' soft light. Typical weather for this time of year. It had been a while since the Time Lord had been in London, in this time period. He found himself getting nostalgic.  
  
The door opened. "May I be helping you, sir?" a smallish man, in a yellow-and-black striped vest, stood in the doorway, looking the Doctor over curiously. He had a pronounced French accent.  
  
The Doctor smiled. "Mr Passepartout, I presume? I was wondering if I could see Mr Fogg."  
  
* * *  
  
Fogg was enjoying the evening. Rebecca had dropped by for tea and stayed for dinner, and now she was reading a book on the sofa in his study, looking positively demure and ladylike. Fogg of course was not fooled. He had had no engagements for the evening and was content to sit in one of his easy chairs near her seat on the sofa, reading the evening newspaper in companiable silence.  
  
When the doorbell rang, both cousins ignored it, knowing Passepartout could efficiently get rid of most anybody who would be on the doorstep. But after a lengthy delay, the manservant came into the room, looking uncomfortable.  
  
"Master," Passepartout started hesitantly. "A gentleman outside wishing to be seeing you."  
  
"Well, send him away, Passepartout," Fogg said without looking up from his newspaper. "I told you we didn't want to be disturbed tonight."  
  
"But master, he telling me it has something to be doing with Master Jules."  
  
Phileas looked up at that, meeting Rebecca's eye. Somebody with information about Jules Verne, here in London? Rebecca put her book aside and glanced up at the valet. "Show him in, Passepartout," she said quietly.  
  
Fogg folded up his newspaper. "There goes a quiet evening," he told his cousin softly. She raised a sardonic eyebrow but didn't verbally reply.  
  
A moment later, the gentleman entered the room. He was dressed well, but shabbily, as if the clothes were old or had been through a lot. He wore a dark velvet frock coat, the sleeves falling over his long pale hands, a paisley waistcoat and silk cravat, a wing-collared shirt and baggy trousers. His hair was overly long and light brown colored, damply curling from the rain outside. His thin face was pale and aristocratic, sensitive and intelligent, and his blue eyes were sad and older somehow than the rest of his appearance.  
  
He smiled politely when he saw the Foggs. "Thank you for seeing me, Mr Fogg," he said in an accent that didn't quite sound familiar to Phileas's ear. It was as if the man were pretending to be English. He turned to Rebecca. "You must be Miss Rebecca Fogg? Very nice to meet you."  
  
"What's this about Jules Verne?" Phileas asked. He saw no point in beating around the bush with pleasantries. And he already disliked this stranger. There was something not quite right about the man that immediately put Fogg on his guard.  
  
Rebecca glanced at her cousin reprovingly before settling her gaze back on the newcomer. "Don't mind my cousin," she said, "sometimes his manners leave a little to be desired. Please, sit down." She watched him perch himself on the edge of an easy chair, as if he were planning on leaving as soon as he had sat down. He settled some strange sort of bag that he'd had slung over his shoulder at his feet. "What's your name?" she went on after he'd made himself comfortable.  
  
"I'm the Doctor," he replied, "and I've just come from Paris. I was hoping you both could help me."  
  
"What's happened to Jules?" Fogg asked again. He knew that by doing so he wasn't hiding his worry for Verne, perhaps giving this stranger an upper hand, but he couldn't help himself. They hadn't heard from the lad in well over a month, and the last time they'd seen the writer, he'd been recovering from yellow fever--or something, anyway; Fogg couldn't trust that damned explorer Harwell's diagnosis. And Jules did have a nasty habit of getting himself into trouble.  
  
"He's disappeared," the Doctor stated calmly. "Or at least, I think he has. I couldn't find him anywhere in Paris, and it appears you don't know where he is either."  
  
Passepartout had discreetly stayed in the room after showing the Doctor in. Rebecca took in one glance at the valet's worried face and said, "Passepartout, could you make us all some tea, please?"  
  
The Frenchman looked away from the Doctor to glance down at her, then nodded. "Yes, Miss Rebecca," he said quietly and left the room. She hoped the chore would give him something to focus on other than their missing friend, though she doubted it would work.  
  
She turned back to the Doctor, getting down to business. "How do you know Jules?" was her first question.  
  
"I met him once about six months ago, in Paris," the newcomer told her. "A few days ago I was bringing a friend of mine to see him."  
  
"And where is this friend of yours now?" Fogg asked coldly.  
  
The Doctor blew out a deep breath. "She's disappeared as well. Actually, she was kidnapped. She'd fallen behind me as we walked down the street, and when I went back to find her, I heard her yell. And then I found this." He held up the sodden backpack, which both Foggs frowned at in incomprehension, never having seen anything quite like it. "Anyway, when I couldn't find Marc or my--transportation--I knew someone had deliberately taken them from me."  
  
"Why?" Rebecca asked simply, closely studying the Doctor's facial expressions and body language. She was trying to get a better grip on this man, who he was, but he wasn't giving her many clues.  
  
"I have many enemies," the Doctor answered calmly, meeting first Phileas's eye, then Rebecca's. Fogg refrained somehow from snorting. "But only one here and now. And only one who could have enough people scattered throughout Paris, ready with this plan for me when I came back. I believe you already know him." He paused before continuing. "Count Gregory."  
  
Phileas swore. Rebecca scowled. "How do you know Count Gregory?" Fogg continued after he regained control of himself. "And what does this have to do with Jules Verne, other than the obvious connection with the count?"  
  
It was the Doctor's turn to scowl. "I don't know if it has anything to do with Jules or not. I only know I came to Paris to see him, lost my friend, lost my TARDIS, and Jules has disappeared as well. Look, I've fought the count before. We go back some time," he went on ironically, which made Rebecca wonder what he wasn't saying. "And I know of his interest in Monsieur Verne. Who else would want to take Jules? The boy doesn't have that many people out looking for him, does he?"  
  
"Are you sure he's disappeared?" Rebecca asked, trying to keep command of the situation. Passepartout came back into the room at that point with his trolley. He began pouring cups of tea and handing them out, paying close attention to the conversation.  
  
"Thank you," the Doctor said politely to the manservant before turning his attention back to Rebecca's question. "No, I'm not entirely sure, Miss Fogg. After I found my companion and ship gone, I went looking for Jules, as I'd planned in the first place when coming to Paris. I knew he knew you, Mr Fogg," the Doctor nodded to Phileas, who was scowling over his own cup of tea, "and was hoping he could introduce you to me and help me. But I couldn't find him anywhere. I tried coffee shops, cafes, bistros, his garret. I asked his friends, his landlady, and they all thought he'd gone off somewhere with you." The Doctor sat back in his chair, careful not to spill his tea even as his face showed his weariness. "Finally I decided to come see you myself. I'd half-hoped to find Monsieur Verne here, but now..."  
  
"And you expect us to help you?" Fogg asked coolly. He sipped his tea.  
  
The Doctor met the Englishman's gaze. "I am hoping you will, yes," the Doctor agreed in just as cool a tone of voice. "You have the contacts and the resources here. I only have my wits--which, while quite important-- are not enough for this matter." His voice softened, becoming persuasive, as he leant forward. "I want to find Monsieur Verne as much as you do, Mr Fogg. And I truly think that we'll find him in the same place that we'll find Marc and the TARDIS. Call it an instinct."  
  
"He did come all this way, Phileas," Rebecca said quietly, looking between her cousin and the Doctor. "And you know Jules can get himself into all kinds of trouble even without our help."  
  
"Yes, cousin, I know," Fogg's voice grated out. "That's the damnable part. It's such a likely story." He swung around again to the newcomer. "How can I trust you?" he demanded.  
  
The Doctor sighed impatiently. "I don't have a list of references on me," he pointed out irritably. "Shall we arrange a meeting with the Queen? I'm sure she'd vouch for me."  
  
"One does not make appointments with Queen Victoria," Fogg said frigidly. "Unless it's the gravest of emergencies."  
  
"Nevertheless, she does know me," the Doctor told them. "And not many other people in London in this time do."  
  
"Who are you then? Where do you come from?" Rebecca asked the logical questions.  
  
The Doctor flickered a smile at her. "I told you. I'm the Doctor."  
  
Phileas snorted. "That doesn't mean much. Where do you live? Why doesn't anyone in London know you?"  
  
"I don't spend much time here," the Doctor said. "I travel extensively."  
  
"Why you caring what happening to Jules?" Passepartout added.  
  
The Doctor looked up at the valet and smiled. "I like him," he said simply. "He has good ideas." His face hardened. "And I know he's had trouble with the League." He swung back to Fogg. "Look, I can help you. And in return, you can help me."  
  
"You can help us?" Phileas didn't bother hiding his disbelief.  
  
"Oh yes," the Doctor said. "I've got all sorts of assets."  
  
"Then why do you need our help?" Rebecca countered. Fogg glanced at her, then looked back at the Time Lord with a triumphant smirk on his handsome face.  
  
The Doctor closed his eyes briefly. "You have your airship. You've fought the Count more recently than I have. I freely admit I need your help. But I still say you need my help as well." A mirthless smile crossed his face. "You could benefit from my experience, I'm sure."  
  
Fogg looked across at his cousin, then up at his valet, silently communicating with each of them. Rebecca at last spoke. "It wouldn't hurt to look, Phileas. What does this man gain by coming here and lying?"  
  
"He could be working for the League," Fogg stated. "Trying to draw us out."  
  
The Doctor snorted. Rebecca quelled him with a single glance. "Then we keep an eye on him. Aren't you just a bit worried about Jules?"  
  
"He no write, master," Passepartout added his own contribution. "He getting in trouble, we not knowing, how can he be escaping?"  
  
Fogg scowled again, steepling his fingers and concentrating on them to help focus his mind. Rebecca sighed impatiently. "If he were a woman, you'd be out of that chair like a shot and ready to help," she pointed out disagreeably, setting her teacup down with a louder clatter than necessary. "Why do you always find it so hard to trust men, Phileas?"  
  
Phileas trained his scowl onto his cousin. "And perhaps you want to help him," he jerked his head in the Doctor's direction, "for the same reasons I would help a woman."  
  
"Master," Passepartout intervened, recognizing the bad-tempered look on Rebecca's face. "We're wasting time. We be searching for Jules, yes?"  
  
Fogg stared up at his valet for a long, considering moment. Passepartout had a very persuasive pleading look, he decided. "Very well," he relented at last, looking around the room before resting his cold gaze on the Doctor. "We'll take you on the Aurora, Doctor, and look for Verne and your friend. But if this is a trap--"  
  
"I'm not the trap," the Doctor cut him off. "I can't guarantee that there won't be others, however."  
  
That set Rebecca laughing. "No, we expect them," she told the other man and rose out of her seat. "Come along, Phileas. We should be getting ready for our trip."  
  
"Passepartout," Fogg said as he followed his cousin's suit. "Prepare the Aurora to leave within the hour. And keep an eye on our guest, won't you?" his eyes flicked down to the still-seated Doctor.  
  
"Yes, master," the French valet nodded. He was just glad they were going to look for Jules.  
  
The Doctor looked up at Fogg as Rebecca left the study. "Thank you," he said.  
  
Fogg stared down at him, then left the room without answering.  
  
The Doctor sighed and set down his teacup and saucer. "Well, Mr Passepartout," he said, standing up briskly. "What would you like me to do?"  
  
Passepartout smiled slowly.  
  
* * *  
  
"Dammit," Marc swore. "I don't even have my backpack."  
  
"Backpack?" Jules asked, looking up from the floor. His mind had been wandering in the silence that had fallen between the two cellmates. He was still seated on the mattress; Marc had started pacing the room restlessly. Jules had a feeling she didn't take confinement very well.  
  
"Er, yeah," Marc answered, looking down at Jules with a peculiar frown on her face. "Um, my bag. I must've dropped it when those--men," again she bit off the word 'bastards,' thinking a properly brought up lady of this time wouldn't curse, "drugged me." She kicked a wall. "Dammit!" she shouted again, already forgetting her resolution not to swear.  
  
"Kicking the wall won't solve anything," Jules pointed out quietly from his seat almost on the floor. "And you'll probably ruin your boots."  
  
Marc laughed helplessly at that and sprawled onto the mattress next to the writer. "So I'm not too surprised I've been drugged and taken prisoner," she said in a conversational tone without looking at her companion. "But what about you? I thought you were just a law student, a writer."  
  
She saw him blushing out of the corner of his eye. "I am," he said. "But the League thinks I've got special talents that they could put to use."  
  
Marc turned her head so she could more fully study the Frenchman. He certainly wasn't what she'd been expecting. Hardly any older than herself, and not very much taller either, slender and shy with curly brown hair and the loveliest hazel eyes she'd ever seen. He was so self-deprecating, so...nice. Utterly nice. He didn't seem like a great novelist at all, just a sweet college kid she'd love to have living down the hall in her co- ed dorm. And yet the way he sat in this cell, quiet but tense, patiently waiting, made Marc wonder how many times before he'd been held prisoner somewhere. "Special talents?" she asked, deciding they both needed a distraction.  
  
"I...see things," he replied hesitantly. "I get ideas about the future."  
  
Marc half-smiled. "The future?" she repeated, trying to keep her tone from being too ironic.  
  
He looked embarrassed and refused to meet her eyes. "Yes," he said.  
  
"Cool." She wanted to tell him she was the future, or at least that she came from it, wanted to comfort him somehow, but she didn't dare. She didn't want to think what the Doctor would do to her if he found out she'd been messing around with his web of time business. "But...not so cool, if these guys are after you."  
  
Jules shrugged. It seemed the only answer he could give her. He frowned and met her eyes. "What did you mean, it doesn't surprise you you've been taken prisoner? What have you done?"  
  
"Oh..." It was Marc's turn to blush. "It's not me they want, it's the Doctor. I'm just bait." She shrugged, imitating him perfectly. "I'm used to it. If I'm not kidnapped because I know the Doctor, I'm thrown in jail because of something the Doctor's done."  
  
Jules couldn't help but smile at her oddly down-to-earth attitude about her circumstances. "You seem to take it all in your stride," he pointed out.  
  
Marc grinned back. "You can't help it after a while. I don't know who's done it this time, though. We'd just barely arrived in Paris before I was nabbed."  
  
Jules scowled. "The League of Darkness. They've got spies everywhere; if they knew about your friend, they probably had a trap waiting for him in advance."  
  
"The League of Darkness?" Marc repeated in disbelief. "Isn't that a little obvious?"  
  
Jules shrugged again. "The League doesn't really feel a need to be particularly subtle," he told her bitterly. "What do they want with your friend?" he went on, his curiosity overtaking his other emotions.  
  
Marc shook her head. "No clue. Well, some possibilities, but they're just the standards. You know, Doc's fouled up their plans before and they want revenge; they know the Doc will foul up their plans so this is their insurance policy; the Doc's got something they want, and they'll exchange me for it.yadda yadda yadda..."  
  
"What?" Jules half-frowned, half-smiled. "'Yadda'?" he repeated the odd word.  
  
"Don't ask," Marc advised. She had a vision of Aouda saying "yadda" in Around the World in 80 Days and shuddered. "Forget it," she added and wished she could shut herself up before she said something really incriminating.  
  
Jules smiled at her. He seemed to be enjoying her company, which made Marc happy, as she was enjoying his. But then, who wouldn't? she asked herself and almost managed to grin. "You seem like a very unusual lady, Miss Davis. Perhaps it's something many American ladies have in common?"  
  
Marc grinned again. "I very much doubt I'm like any American girl you've ever met," she stated truthfully. "And please, call me Marc."  
  
"Marc," Jules repeated, awkwardly fumbling the syllable. "I think you'd get along well with Rebecca, Marc--she certainly takes being a prisoner as calmly as you do."  
  
"Does she go mad waiting around for something to happen?"  
  
"Yes," was the frank reply.  
  
"Well then, maybe you're right, Jules." She stumbled over his name and wished she hadn't. It was just so odd talking to this gentle young man and equating him with a noted Victorian author. And it was too weird thinking of him as Mr Verne. "You've been to the U.S.?" she added as his earlier remark sunk in properly.  
  
He nodded. "My friends and I spent some time there. We met some very interesting people." He frowned. "And some not so interesting ones." He shook himself out of whatever depressing reverie he'd fallen into and asked her, "Where in America are you from?"  
  
"Indiana," Marc told him, "but I go to college in St. Louis. Well, I did," she added, furrowing her brow. "But I've been traveling with the Doctor for a couple months now."  
  
"Where've you gone?"  
  
"All sorts of places," Marc answered dreamily. "Places you haven't even heard of." She glanced at Jules. "I'd always wanted to go to the moon," she said, not sure why she was telling him this when she'd never felt comfortable telling it to anyone. "And the Doctor seemed the perfect opportunity to get there."  
  
"He could get you to the moon?" Jules asked in disbelief. "I know it's possible, and I know humans will get there, but somehow it doesn't seem likely--yet."  
  
Marc grinned. "Someday," she said.  
  
Jules nodded in agreement. "Someday." He smiled and pushed himself off the ground to wander the cell. "You're making this much more pleasant than I thought possible, Miss Da--Marc."  
  
Marc looked up at him. "So are you. Thanks."  
  
Jules paused to look back down at her. "You're welcome," he answered in an understanding tone. He looked up at the solid wooden door and scowled. "I just wish...they'd get it over with. I've been locked up in here for a couple days already, and nothing's happened." He shook his head slowly. "I'm going crazy..."  
  
"Don't," Marc said firmly. "That's probably what they want. They're trying to scare us, making us wait and imagine all sorts of things. They really were stupid to put us in the same room together," she added, standing up and brushing off her skirts.  
  
"Why's that?" Jules asked in bemusement.  
  
She grinned, pulling a pack of playing cards out of a pocket in the skirt of her dress. "Because we can occupy ourselves much more easily together than alone."  
  
"Cards?" Jules sounded surprised. "You want to play a card game?"  
  
Marc shrugged. "It's something to do. Gives us something to think about." She sat down cross-legged on the floor, her dress spreading itself out around her like a moat around a castle. Jules stared down at her, for a moment thinking she must be a mirage brought on by severe boredom and depression. She's extraordinary. "Come on, what else are we gonna do?" she asked reasonably.  
  
When she put it that way...  
  
Jules sat down across from her carefully, crossing his own legs in imitation of her. "What will we play?" he asked, meeting her gaze.  
  
She started shuffling. "D'you know Crazy Eights?" she grinned cheekily.  
  
* * *  
  
The Foggs, Passepartout, and the Doctor were on the Aurora, making good time across the Channel. The Doctor had reasoned that Count Gregory would probably set his base down somewhere near Paris, if he really intended to trap the Doctor into giving him a key to the TARDIS and knowledge on how to use it, so they were starting their search in France. The Doctor hadn't mentioned exactly to the Foggs and their servant what the TARDIS was; he didn't feel a need for everyone in this time period to know he had a working time machine. The count had found out about it and about the Doctor in a previous adventure, a few centuries ago by Earth's calendar, only about a century or so ago subjectively for the Time Lord. He'd run into the League a couple times since then, once during the Stuart reign, once in a particularly nasty episode during the French Revolution...he was getting very tired of Count Gregory.  
  
This was supposed to be a holiday for Marc, the Doctor thought to himself. He was standing outside on the Aurora, looking over the railing at the water passing below. We were going to have a conversation with Jules Verne and his friends, get Marc a little taste of what Paris was really like, give her the history education she wanted. Instead she's locked up somewhere, with who knows what threats hanging over her...  
  
"I hope you're not thinking about jumping."  
  
The Doctor craned his neck to look behind him. Rebecca Fogg, changed from a rather lovely dress of blue flowers patterned all over it into a leather catsuit with all kinds of pockets and devices, stood in the door, watching him with a wry little smile and a raised eyebrow. She stepped fully out of the ship and closed the door behind her.  
  
"Of course not," the Doctor said. "What would that accomplish?"  
  
"You were looking very guilty," the Secret Service agent explained, coming over to stand next to him. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to do something foolish."  
  
The Doctor laughed mirthlessly. "I've already been a fool in letting Count Gregory get the better of me, Miss Fogg. I am not going to let him win, however. Whatever his plans are, they must be stopped."  
  
Rebecca was giving him a long side glance, still with that inquisitive half-smile on her face. "How in the world do you know about Count Gregory and the League of Darkness? You're not any government's agent, or else Phil or I or both of us would know of you. I've never heard of you as a great explorer or adventurer--where do you come from? Where do you travel?"  
  
The Doctor smiled softly to himself. He always did find the curious ones. He wondered idly what her cousin thought of her coming out here to speak alone to this untrustworthy stranger. On the other hand, perhaps Phileas Fogg had sent her out here to persuade some more information out of him. Somehow, though, the Doctor didn't think Rebecca Fogg would do anything unless she wanted to do it herself. "I don't like being in the spotlight," he said. "I keep to myself, only stepping in when I feel I have to. I'm not a government agent; I don't have allegiance to any one country. And I go where I please, Miss Fogg." He turned to face her, a frown pulling at his face. "But to do that, I need my TARDIS. And my companion."  
  
"Does your companion have a name?" Rebecca asked, delicate eyebrow again raised. "Is she your ward?"  
  
"Oh grief, no, she's not my ward. Marcella Davis is very much her own young woman. I suppose you could call me her teacher...but really, we're just friends. Traveling companions."  
  
"You're worried about her." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
The Doctor turned back to the railing. "Of course I am. You're worried about Jules Verne."  
  
Rebecca sighed, also staring over the side of the airship. "It's hard not to worry about him," she admitted. "It's easy to forget how strong, how capable he really is of taking care of himself. He always looks like he needs someone to protect him."  
  
The Doctor nodded. "That's rather the way it is with Marc, too. She's very practical, very level-headed, especially for her age. She takes so much that happens around and to her with equanimity. But sometimes..." The Doctor's hands tightened on the railing. "She's so young. I just wanted to give her a short, peaceful holiday. And this is what happens."  
  
Rebecca looked up at him and placed a gentle hand on his arm. "I'm sure she's fine. It sounds like she's an intelligent girl; she's probably handling herself well, Doctor." She smiled. "And who knows? Perhaps our friends have been lucky and are in the same cell somewhere. They can be strong together."  
  
An answering smile flickered on the Doctor's face. "Thank you for the reassurance, Miss Fogg."  
  
Rebecca grinned impishly. "Call me Rebecca," she told him.  
  
* * *  
  
"You're cheating!" Jules met Marc's eye in disbelief. "You just put the six of clubs down; you can't take it back and put another card down! You are blatantly cheating!"  
  
"Of course," Marc shrugged. "I know I'm blatantly cheating; you were about to change suits on me, and I can't let that happen. I've got a handful of clubs!"  
  
Jules started laughing in outraged helplessness and threw his cards down. Marc giggled at him. She was a strange girl and this was a surreal turn of events, but against all reason he was having an enjoyable time. He wondered what their guard or guards was making of it. Sometimes he got so wrapped up in the game and teasing Marc he almost forgot he was in a cell. And when he remembered again--or Marc did, and he could tell she did when she suddenly got quiet, biting her lip and struggling to control her facial expressions--one of them deliberately did something to cheer up or at least distract the other person. It had become a ritual with them over the past few days, to play as many card games as they could for as long as possible, coming up with elaborate rules for entire tournaments. They'd played as many different kinds of games as they could, even making some up, but they always came back to this simple child's game that Marc called Crazy Eights. A way to waste the time and get over the monotony. The only time anyone visited them was to bring them food or take one of them to another part of the building to clean up a bit.  
  
"You could at least try to be subtle about it!"  
  
"Why?" Marc countered reasonably. "You might as well know I'm cheating. At least it's honest that way."  
  
There was no way to answer that. "You're impossible!"  
  
Marc grinned. "I know."  
  
The door burst open behind them. Both prisoners jumped up, turning to face the door, cards scattering on the ground. Jules tried to place himself in front of Marc protectively, instinctively knowing this visit was somehow different from the others, but she grabbed his arm and firmly stood him next to her. Her face had lost all its color. He could feel her shaking. But then, she could probably feel him shaking too. Because even though they'd done a very good job distracting themselves, they'd known the entire time that underneath it all, they were still prisoners.  
  
One of the uniformed men they occasionally saw, the one who had been in charge of Marc's kidnapping, came into the cell, inspecting Jules and Marc. A couple more uniforms and a couple white-coated men trailed in behind him. "Take them both," he instructed before sweeping out of the cell.  
  
Marc met Jules's eye, and he tried to look reassuring, even though his own throat was dry and constricted. "We want to know what's going on, don't we?" he whispered to her as two of the League men roughly grabbed him and pulled him out of the room. The others did the same with Marc.  
  
They were dragged unceremoniously down a long hallway, up a flight of stairs and down a few more corridors, pausing while waiting for somebody else to open the double doors in front of them. And then the two prisoners were forced into another room, murky with shadows and torch light that didn't do much to illuminate their surroundings.  
  
"Ahh," said a rasping voice that Jules recognized all too well. It immediately sent shudders down his spine. "Jules Verne. How nice to see you again."  
  
"Count Gregory," Jules said, attempting to keep his voice firm even though he wanted to gag. The count's chair appeared in front of them out of the darkness. The count was as appealing to look at as ever. Jules heard Marc gasp when she saw the former crusader. Apparently so did he, as Gregory swung around to look at her. "And this is the Doctor's friend, is it? How nice to meet you, young lady."  
  
"The name's Marc Davis," she muttered. She irritably pulled herself out of her guards' grip and stood on her own, shaking out her dress and probably unaware of how ruffled she looked. Jules admired her at that moment.  
  
"Do you think I care?" Gregory asked her coldly. "All I want is the key to the box. The--TARDIS, isn't that what your friend calls it?"  
  
"Key? TARDIS?" Marc sounded innocent. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
The man with an ugly contraption on his face snaked his hand around Marc's arm again and pulled it harshly behind her. She yelled out in pain. "Stop it!" Jules shouted, struggling in his own guards' grip and failing to get away from them. "Don't do this!"  
  
"Where is the key?" Count Gregory's voice grated. The man twisted Marc's arm further behind her back. "It was not in the bag you carried; my men searched it before leaving it for the Doctor to find." Jules tried desperately to reach Marc, sure her arm was about to break or her shoulder dislocate. "Where is it?!"  
  
"I don't have one!" Marc grated out through clenched teeth, biting her lower lip. "Only the Doctor does, damn you."  
  
Without any visible order, the white-coated man let her go. She sagged, cradling her arm and wincing. She scowled at Gregory. "You're a bastard," she hissed, blinking back tears of pain.  
  
"That was too easy," the count said. "You should have resisted more, Miss Davis. But I believe you--why would the Time Lord entrust a mere human with a key to a time machine? Take her away."  
  
"No! Goddamn you, no!" Marc hollered in frustration even as she was pulled out of the room, one of the men tightly holding her bruised and sore arm. As soon as the door closed on her furious, terrified face, Jules swung back to the count, trying to keep his heart from jumping out of his chest with its frantic beating. "You didn't have to do that," he yelled at the count even as his mind whirled at the words the count had used against Marc. Time Lord? Time machine?  
  
"Yes, I did," the count answered simply. "I have something to show you, Monsieur Verne." The count wheeled his chair out of the way, and Jules was pulled further into the deep and shadowy room. At the far end stood a tall, large blue box. It had a set of double doors, oddly enough, and English words, something about police and emergency...Jules turned back to the count, who had followed them to the other side of the room, a frown of confusion on his expressive face. "What is this?" he asked.  
  
"The Doctor's box," the count said. "The TARDIS."  
  
"And what do you expect me to do with it?" Jules snorted. "You can't even get inside it if you don't have the key!"  
  
"Touch it," Gregory commanded. Jules scowled and refused to move. One of the men holding him shoved him against the box.  
  
He could feel a quiver under him, as if the large box were a purring cat. It was soothing, somehow, and Jules found himself drawn to it. It felt like...the future.  
  
He rested one of his hands against the door and half-turned to stare back at the count. "What is it?" he breathed. The box felt alive, in a way, but more like how he'd always imagined a machine could feel alive.  
  
He had a feeling Gregory was smiling, even though there wasn't really enough of the man's face left for a smile. "I thought so. You are indeed a special man, Jules Verne. Take him away."  
  
Jules let himself be hauled out of the room, keeping his eyes fixed on the box for as long as he could. The blue paint was chipped and faded, the windows grimy, the top of the box strewn with dust and cobwebs, but it was still beautiful, still powerful.  
  
He had to get inside that box and find out what it was.  
  
* * *  
  
"We have been through every square inch of this area with a fine tooth comb, Doctor," Fogg stated in his coldest accents as he stood over the seated Time Lord. Passepartout had his back to the scene, guiding the airship, but Fogg knew the manservant was paying just as much attention to what was occurring behind him as he was to what he was searching for outside. "There is absolutely no sign of the League. It is time we moved on."  
  
"Are you certain we haven't missed anything?" the Doctor countered in a reasonable tone. Rebecca, standing at the observation window in front of the airship controls, winced. She could have told the Doctor that doubting Fogg's searching abilities would certainly not help him win the other Englishman over. But then, she had a feeling the Doctor would never get on Phileas's good side. She wasn't entirely certain why; the Doctor was a bit restless and overly energetic, perhaps, but Rebecca never had the impression he was a League spy. And she had been watching him closely ever since she'd met him. He fascinated her even as he aggravated her--it was as if he were trying to be as deliberately mysterious as possible. She knew he was well-travelled, intelligent, resourceful, a delightful conversationalist and not at all bad at chess (or fencing, surprisingly; he'd managed twice to disarm her in their sparring an hour or two ago), but still she knew so little personal information about him. Like his name.  
  
"Doctor, this could prove to be an impossible task," Rebecca interrupted the fight, tired of the two men's squabbling. They'd been arguing with each other simply for the sake of arguing for the past three hours. Even fencing with the Doctor hadn't shut either of them up. She had considered ordering Passepartout to somehow bind their mouths shut, but she wasn't sure she could count on the valet to do something like that to his master when his master was not being a menace to anyone--physically anyway. Still, perhaps she'd do it herself if they didn't shut up soon. She turned away from the window, wandering back to join the two gentlemen at the table. The Doctor had spread out some maps of the French countryside in front of him. Phileas was seething. "We don't know where our friends have been taken; they could be in a castle, in a cave, even in a slum in Paris."  
  
"We're not even sure our friends have been taken," Fogg added through gritted teeth. "Or at least, our friend. We don't even know who this Marc Davis person is, Rebecca."  
  
"Not this again," Rebecca groaned, rolling her eyes. "Honestly, Phileas, you take your paranoia too far."  
  
"If you'd given me more of a chance to investigate in Paris, I might have already found Verne!"  
  
"And I told you," the Doctor intervened, "I already looked for him in Paris and couldn't find him!"  
  
"Would both of you stop!" The Doctor and Fogg looked at Rebecca in surprise, their mouths hanging open in preparation for speaking. "Constantly arguing like this is getting us nowhere!" she went on. "If you both don't at least pretend to be civil to each other, I will bind your mouths shut!"  
  
There was a muffled sound from Passepartout's direction, suspiciously like laughter. Phileas decided to ignore it. The Doctor glanced from the manservant's back to Fogg to Rebecca, and at last smiled sheepishly. "You're right, Rebecca," he said. "We're being foolish."  
  
"Right." Rebecca blew her breath out, glad that was out of the way. "One of you go up front and help Passepartout look. I'm ready for a break."  
  
"What are we looking for, exactly?" the Doctor asked as he wandered up to the large window. Fogg, who'd gone over to his drinks cabinet, dropped the glass he'd been holding with a clatter onto the wood surface.  
  
"You don't even know what we're looking for?" the ex-Secret Service agent asked in disbelief. He turned to Rebecca with something like desperate appeal in his eyes. "Good God, man!"  
  
"Does Count Gregory have the Prometheus by now?" The Doctor appeared to have chosen to ignore Fogg's outburst. "Perhaps he's landed it somewhere, under the cover of the forest. Can you take the Aurora any lower, Passepartout? The closer we get to those trees, the better we'll be able to see."  
  
"Yes, Doctor." Passepartout gently changed direction.  
  
Fogg gulped his drink down and poured himself another. Rebecca looked between the three men, rolled her eyes and shook her head, and sat back in her chair. It was going to be a very long day indeed.  
  
* * *  
  
Marc had been taken back to their cell and left in the room alone. She started to pick up the cards that had been left strewn around the floor, then stopped when her right arm throbbed in protest. She sat down on the floor.  
  
Jules found her there, fifteen minutes later when he was brought back. "Marc?" he asked worriedly after the door slammed shut behind him. He dusted down his waistcoat and trousers.  
  
She was staring at the ground with an unreadable intensity, her right arm held loosely in front of her. Jules sat down next to her and gently took the appendage to look it over. A breath hissed out between her teeth, and he glanced up to meet her gaze.  
  
"I'm sorry if I hurt you. Are you all right?" he asked quietly.  
  
She stared down at her arm, biting her lip. "Yeah," she said at last. She felt numb inside. It had happened to her before, in various situations she'd gotten into while traveling with the Doctor. She knew she'd have a reaction later, possibly involving tears and screaming, but at the moment all she had was the numbness.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jules said.  
  
Marc focused on his face. "Why are you sorry?" she scowled. "You didn't do this. You're not Count Gregory." She stood up, pacing away from the young man still seated on the floor. "We've gotta get out of here, Jules."  
  
"I know," Jules sighed. "But how can we? There's only the two of us, with no weapons, and who knows how many League agents out there." He rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "That wouldn't stop Phileas and Rebecca though."  
  
"And it wouldn't stop the Doctor." Marc sounded wry. She leant her back against the wall, her arms folded in front of her and her eyes closed. She could feel that reaction setting in and she was trying to fight it. She did not need to fall to pieces while locked in this cell with Verne. And she had too much pride to let him see her crying.  
  
"What was he talking about in there, Marc?" Jules wasn't looking at her, frowning at the ground in front of him instead. He didn't see her struggle to control herself. He began picking up the cards. He'd even gotten used to the odd material they were made of, the slightly off-quality of how the suits and face cards were drawn, unlike how he was used to seeing them. "Mere human? Time machine?" Jules looked up at her directly, his eyes brooking no evasion this time, as she'd done countless times before in their incarceration, when she didn't know what he was talking about, or he didn't know what she was talking about. "What's going on?"  
  
Marc sighed and hugged herself. "I really don't think I should tell you anything, Jules," she said, unable to meet his glance.  
  
"Come on, Marc!" Jules stood up, holding the pack of cards tightly, his thin face pinched with anger. "Something's not right about you; it's more than just because you come from another country! And what the count was saying...what did he mean? Who are you? Who is your friend?"  
  
Marc squeezed her eyes shut. "It's complicated."  
  
"No," Jules answered. "It's not." He shoved the cards into Marc's hand, and she opened her eyes in surprise to find him standing directly in front of her, when an instant ago he'd been in the center of the room. She was almost tall enough to be standing eye to eye with him, she realized uncomfortably as she found herself unable to look away from his face.  
  
"Smeg," she said, surprising them both. Jules blinked. "That--count- -was right. The Doctor's a Time Lord; he...he isn't human. And yes, the TARDIS is a time machine."  
  
"Are you...?"  
  
"I'm human," Marc said with a flickering smile, "just as mortal as you are. But...but I come from the future." She scowled. "You know, it's a helluva lot easier to make fun of corny lines like that in sci-fi movies than it is in real life." She ducked around Jules, needing to find some space for herself. His intensity could sometimes overwhelm her. "And you probably shouldn't know about any of this," she added, turning around to face him again from the other side of the cell.  
  
Jules looked back at her, frowning. "Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
Marc snorted. "What, are you crazy? 'Oh hey, by the way Jules, I'm actually from the late 1990s. Just thought you should know.' You'd think I was looney."  
  
Jules half-smiled, sitting down on the mattress in the corner of the room. "It makes sense," he said thoughtfully. "Your strange vocabulary, your hair..."  
  
"My lack of decorum," she added dryly, thinking back to a few times she'd shocked and embarrassed the Frenchman. He winced, also remembering. "Look, I'm sorry; maybe I should have told you. After all, you told me about your...visions." She sighed. "Just don't write about a time machine, please? Somebody else will." She tentatively sat down next to him, hoping he'd forgiven her lack of total honesty. "Who is this count, anyway?" She shuddered. "What the hell happened to him?"  
  
"He was a crusader," Jules said. "He was torn apart by wild horses and should have died, but somehow he was brought back to life. I don't really know that much more about him, only that he intends to have as much power as he can gain--"  
  
"Well, that's a given," Marc smirked. "What's the point in being the baddie if you can't try to take over the world?"  
  
"Does everyone talk that way in the future?"  
  
"Depends how far ahead you go. And where you come from." She rubbed at her eyes. "Damn contacts," she muttered and leaned back against the hard stone wall, her face working.  
  
"Marc?" Jules asked worriedly.  
  
Marc swallowed, firmly calming herself down. "I'm stuck in a cell over a century before my time, with no way to get home, no contact with friends or family, and I'm probably going to get killed by a metalman in a wheelchair. What'm I worried about?" she joked. Somehow it didn't sound very funny to her.  
  
"You're not going to die," Jules said firmly. "And don't you consider me a friend by now?"  
  
Marc opened her eyes to smile at the Frenchman. "Of course I do. We're still screwed, though, you have to admit."  
  
Jules directed a rueful look at her. "Would you stop saying that, please?" he asked lightly. "You're ruining my optimism."  
  
A smile broke out on Marc's face. "I thought that was impossible!" He'd constantly remained the more outwardly hopeful of the two of them-- Marc knew she tended to be a doomsayer, even though she never really allowed herself to believe any of her pessimistic words.  
  
"We'll get out of this," Jules said firmly, leaning his shoulder against hers, meeting her eye and giving her his wonderfully sweet smile. "I promise."  
  
Marc leant into his shoulder gratefully. "You really shouldn't make promises you can't keep," she told him, "but thanks for the confidence."  
  
Jules sat back. "Want to play another card game?"  
  
"What, you want me to cheat again?"  
  
Jules helplessly started laughing.  
  
* * *  
  
"And just how do you propose to get inside there, Doctor?"  
  
Rebecca shut her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. She was sitting down at one end of the table, the Doctor in the middle, Fogg pacing behind them. They had found the Prometheus, hidden in the forest near a castle and landed the Aurora nearby. While Rebecca and Phileas had started gathering together supplies--ammunition, dynamite, etc--the Doctor had watched them in what appeared to be horror. And he'd started arguing with Fogg. Again.  
  
"We go in quietly," the Doctor said. "Not with guns blazing. We render some of the guards unconscious, borrow their clothes, and get Jules and Marc and my TARDIS out of there. Slip in and out with no one the wiser. It always works."  
  
Rebecca opened her eyes, looking up to meet her cousin's eye. "It sounds good to me," she said. "We've had similar plans before."  
  
Fogg nodded. "Very well then Doctor. We'll do this your way. But we're keeping the weapons. Are you ready, Passepartout?" Without waiting for any of the others, Fogg left the airship. Passepartout quickly followed his master out.  
  
"I get the feeling he doesn't like me," the Doctor ruminated.  
  
Rebecca stood up. "Can you blame him?" she asked. "I think you actually argue with my cousin more than I do."  
  
The Doctor smiled up at her. "Surely not," he said.  
  
After a moment of meeting the Doctor's eye, an answering smile quirked up Rebecca's lips. "Come on," she said, glancing from him to the door. "We don't want to keep the others waiting."  
  
"Definitely not," the Doctor agreed and jumped up. He held the door open for Rebecca. "After you," he said politely. Rebecca raised an eyebrow, bowed her head once in appreciation, and slipped out of the Aurora. The Doctor followed.  
  
The group of four slipped through the trees quietly. The moon was rising in the sky, barely visible through the trees, but giving off enough light that they could at least see each other as they crept along closely together. They reached the castle and Passepartout and Fogg scouted ahead to see how many guards were at the entrance.  
  
"Why you no like Mister Doctor, Master?" Passepartout whispered as he and his master ducked by the stone wall surrounding the castle.  
  
"Because," Fogg replied, looking around the wall to check for the guards, "he is holding something back. And he's trying to charm my cousin."  
  
"Master?" Passepartout sounded surprised. "More other way round, I am thinking." Fogg turned his head to look back at his valet. Passepartout shrunk back a little. "Or not," the Frenchman added tentatively.  
  
"I don't trust him," Fogg said. "He appeared out of nowhere and I would rather he went back to nowhere as soon as possible." He stood up abruptly and chopped the back of the head of the person who'd just started marching past the gate. He turned back to smile at Passepartout. "One down, three to go," he said and led the manservant through the front gate.  
  
He and Passepartout came back ten minutes later, carrying two League uniforms, already wearing their own stolen garments. "Sorry Rebecca," Fogg said, actually sounding slightly apologetic, "we couldn't find a female's uniform."  
  
"I'll make do," she said and disappeared behind some trees. When she came back the Doctor had also donned his new clothes. They marched through the front gate and entered the castle.  
  
"They'd be held in the dungeons," Rebecca hissed. "We need to find a staircase that leads downwards."  
  
"This way, if I know my architecture," the Doctor whispered back and led the way down a corridor. Sure enough, they were soon descending stairs illuminated by torches on the wall.  
  
"What are you doing here?" A couple men in the same uniform the Doctor and the others wore stared at them. The real League agents were standing in front of a heavy wooden door, obviously guarding it.  
  
"Didn't you know?" Fogg smiled charmingly. "We're here to relieve you of your duties." He punched the man in the face. Passepartout took care of the other man in much the same way.  
  
"Fogg!" a familiar voice from the other side of the cell door cried out. "Fogg, we're in here!"  
  
Phileas smiled, taking the ring of keys off the belt of the guard he'd knocked unconscious. "Ahh, Verne," he called back, standing up and trying each of the keys quickly in the lock. "How nice to hear your voice again. Enjoying your holiday?"  
  
The door opened, and Phileas couldn't help but grin at the sight of his young friend standing in the doorway, disheveled and dressed in hideously dirty clothes. "Not much better than Africa," Jules replied with an answering smile of relief.  
  
Phileas looked him over critically. "Next time, you could at least bother to write," he said, then saw Jules's companion. "Ahh. You must be Miss Davis." Jules slipped past Fogg while Phileas took the girl's hand to help her politely out of the cell. "A pleasure to meet you."  
  
"Marc," Jules said, standing between Rebecca and Passepartout after having given them both hugs. "This is Phileas Fogg and his cousin Rebecca and Passepartout."  
  
Marc hugged the other person in the group. Surprise flared briefly in the Doctor's eyes, and then he smiled, patting Marc on the back. She stepped back and looked around the group. Her gaze settled on Jules, and she flicked a thumb at her friend. "And this is the Doctor," she said.  
  
Jules held his hand out. "We've met," he said, bowing his head.  
  
The Doctor grinned. "Hullo again, Jules," he said as he shook the younger man's hand. He immediately got back to business. "I don't suppose either of you have seen my TARDIS?"  
  
Marc shook her head. "No, but that--man--was asking for the key."  
  
"It's a blue box, isn't it?" Jules asked. The Doctor looked up sharply and nodded. "Then yes, I saw it. Count Gregory showed it to me after you were taken back here, Marc," he added in explanation when he saw Marc's confused look.  
  
"Quickly, can you show us the way to where you saw the count?" the Doctor asked urgently. Jules and Marc exchanged glances.  
  
"I think so," Marc said at the same time that Jules said, "It shouldn't be hard."  
  
"Go on then," Fogg said, gesturing with one of his pistols. Jules and Marc took the lead. They encountered nobody as they strode, almost running, down the corridors and up the stairs.  
  
"Short on staff these days," the Doctor muttered to Rebecca.  
  
"Perhaps all his people are still out in Paris, looking for you. Or us," she replied.  
  
The group stopped when they came up to an imposing set of double doors. The two youngest members of the group turned back to face their friends. "This is it," Marc stated.  
  
"Right. Please step out of the way, Miss Davis, Verne." Fogg waited for them to do so, then kicked the doors open. They all rushed into the room.  
  
The spacious yet claustrophobic room was still dimly lit, but the Foggs and Passepartout seemed to have no trouble finding their opponents. They fought deeper into the room, dispatching people with fists, guns, knives, until suddenly there was silence as no one else came forward to fight them. Footsteps echoed in the silence, and Fogg immediately swung around, tracking the sound with his pistol.  
  
"No!" the Doctor hit Fogg's arm, causing him to drop the pistol. The man he'd been about to shoot slipped out of the room, running away.  
  
Fogg turned to scowl down at the shorter man. The Doctor held his stance. "There was no need to kill him," he stated. "There was no need to kill any of them! They're merely pawns, used by Count Gregory."  
  
"That is correct, Doctor," a new voice said. The count's chair wheeled around from behind the TARDIS, half visible in the almost darkness. "And letting him get away means that more of my pawns will soon be here to kill you all." The count took them all in. "I must congratulate you, Doctor, on your resourcefulness. And I must thank you for delivering Phileas and Rebecca Fogg to me."  
  
"If you really think--" Fogg started, taking a step toward the count, his pistol held at the ready. But the Doctor interrupted, striding ahead of him to confront the count.  
  
"You've lost, Gregory," he stated calmly. "I have my companion and my TARDIS back. You still have nothing."  
  
"On the contrary," Gregory said. "You won't get out of here alive. All I need from you is your key to the box."  
  
The Doctor grinned mirthlessly. "Do you really think you could steer a time machine, Count?"  
  
"Why would I need to? Monsieur Verne already seems to have an affinity for your ship. I'm sure he could manage."  
  
Jules could feel everyone's gaze shift to him, and he swallowed, glancing at Marc. She frowned at him thoughtfully before swinging her glance back to her friend. She was hiding her concern well, but Jules had spent a long time with her in that cell and could read her body language by now.  
  
"Come Doctor," Gregory's tone had changed, becoming persuasive. "Surely you don't want to die here at my hands? Think of the power you could have if you joined me. How long have you lived? How long have you been on this planet, seen it decay and fall apart? It needs someone to take control; surely you see that?"  
  
Rebecca, Phileas, and Passepartout were now shifting their gazes back and forth between the seated count and the standing Doctor, frowning in incomprehension at the count's words. Jules looked intrigued. Marc was hugging herself, waiting for the end and knowing it would have to come soon. The Doctor's face was expressionless as he leant down closer to the count. "Yes, I have lived a very long time," he breathed into what would have been the count's ear, had he one. "And yes, I have spent much of my time here on Earth. And I have learned that it is always the people like you who make this planet decay and fall apart." He straightened.  
  
The count looked ready to begin raging, but before he could start, they all heard the echo of feet marching quicktime. Gregory started laughing. "You are too late, Doctor. Surrender! You've lost."  
  
"Not quite," the Doctor grinned and held up an odd looking piece of metal on a chain. He glanced behind him. "Quickly, all of you to the TARDIS!"  
  
"What?" Rebecca said.  
  
"Come on!" Marc grabbed Jules's arm, pulling him toward the police box. Rebecca and Passepartout followed them in confusion. The Doctor shouted out Marc's name and tossed the key toward her. She caught it on the fly and turned to unlock the TARDIS.  
  
Phileas had not followed the others. Instead he walked closer to the count, his pistol pointed firmly at Gregory's head. He didn't bother turning his head when he saw a pale hand with long white fingers close gently around the gun.  
  
"Time to end this, Doctor," he told the other man.  
  
"No," the Doctor replied, "time to get away." He pushed Fogg toward the box, unbalancing the taller Englishman. "We have to go!" he shouted when Phileas appeared set to stay where he was. The sound of running footsteps was overwhelming; they sounded like they were just around the corner.  
  
Fogg scowled and pocketed his pistol. The Doctor pushed him again toward the TARDIS. Marc had the door open and was already ushering the others inside.  
  
"Another time," Fogg sneered at the count before he disappeared with the others into the box.  
  
* * *  
  
The Doctor was rushing around the main console, preparing his ship to land on the Aurora. The others stood in a cluster near the door, staring around them. Marc stood somewhere in between the solitary Doctor and the Victorian group, feeling pity for the others but needing to be near her friend.  
  
The Doctor hit one last switch and looked up in triumph. "Got it," he said in great self-satisfaction as the rods in the column in the center of the console began going up and down. He saw the Foggs, Jules, and Passepartout waiting and grinned. "Should soon be there," he called.  
  
"If you haven't messed it up again," Marc muttered sweetly to him, coming to stand next to him.  
  
"Marc," the Doctor chided, "have a little faith! I always come through eventually." He gave her a soft smile. "I left your backpack on the Aurora."  
  
She looked pleasantly surprised. "You mean you got it? I thought those goons took it from me." She smiled. "Thanks."  
  
"You're welcome." The Doctor studied her thoughtfully. Her clothes were torn and dirty, her eyes red-rimmed, her short hair matted and tangled, and her entire body language bespoke exhaustion. He looked over at Jules Verne and saw much the same thing. "I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner," he told her quietly.  
  
She shrugged with one shoulder, not bothering to hide how tired she was. "It's over and done with now," she said. "We're home free."  
  
"For now," the Doctor replied.  
  
"Yeah," Marc said, changing the subject gratefully. "I shoulda known you'd know Count-fricking-Gregory. What'd you do to piss him off?"  
  
"The usual," the Doctor said, putting an arm around her shoulders and steering her back to the others. "Interfered with his plans for world domination, that kind of thing."  
  
"Doctor," Fogg said as the Time Lord and Marc rejoined them, actually sounding awed. "This place is amazing."  
  
"Yes, I like to think it is," the Doctor smiled beatifically. "And I should have you back on your airship in no time at all." He sobered. "And I would be grateful if you forgot all about the old girl, too. Or at least don't mention her to anyone."  
  
"Old girl?" Rebecca questioned.  
  
"The TARDIS," Marc sighed.  
  
Jules wandered away from the group, heading for the console. "Can't you feel it, Rebecca?" he called over his shoulder. His face lit up when he reached the controls, and he looked at the center column, mesmerized by the up-and-down movements of the rods. "It's alive."  
  
Rebecca and Phileas exchanged sardonic glances. The Doctor hastily joined Jules at the controls. "Yes, Monsieur Verne, you do seem to have an affinity for my TARDIS," he said, gently maneuvering the young man away from the console. Marc smirked as she watched Jules unwillingly go back to the huge double doors where everyone else still stood. "But I really don't think you should dwell on it too much." The Doctor met Jules's eye firmly. "Please."  
  
"But--" Jules began.  
  
"Remember what I said about time machines?" Marc asked quietly as she took the Frenchman's arm. "You deal with other stuff, okay?"  
  
Jules held her gaze, then nodded, relenting. The Doctor flashed them all a relieved smile, then went back to the controls.  
  
"Verne, you look like hell," Fogg said, drawing his friend away to inspect him. "When was the last time you changed clothes?"  
  
Verne looked up at him wryly. "Giving us clean clothes to wear wasn't a top priority of the count's, Fogg," he pointed out.  
  
"We've got a whole room of clothes here if you want to change," Marc offered. "I might even be able to find where the bathroom is."  
  
Jules glanced at her and smiled. "I can wait until I'm back on the Aurora," he said, "thanks all the same."  
  
"And here we are," the Doctor announced when the console chimed softly. He opened the doors. "After you," he said, looking at them expectantly.  
  
Rebecca and Phileas looked at each other and shrugged. They filed out of the room, followed by Passepartout, Jules, Marc, and the Doctor.  
  
"Ahh," Phileas sighed in satisfaction, turning a full three hundred and sixty degrees as he looked around the main cabin of the Aurora. Passepartout scurried over to the controls to set the airship flying. "Home again."  
  
"You're not leaving already, I trust?" Rebecca asked the Doctor. "I mean, we've just met you--and your friend could certainly do with a rest," she looked over at Marc, who was standing next to Passepartout, watching him in fascination as he prepared the Aurora to leave the ground.  
  
The Doctor looked around at Marc, at Jules, at last turning his look back to Rebecca. "Well, we'll stay the night at least," he decided. "I'm sure Marc will want to tell Jules a proper good-bye, and I don't think she could do it now. He looks dead on his feet." The French writer was in fact sitting on the sofa behind the table, exhausted circles under his eyes. "Marc," the Doctor called across the room, and his friend turned inquiringly. "Come back to the TARDIS--change your clothes, get some rest. We'll say good-bye tomorrow, alright? It's the least I can do," he added, more to Rebecca than Marc.  
  
"Okay, Doc," the American girl said, sounding fatigued. She rested a hand on Passepartout's shoulder, smiling at him, before leaving his side and slipping past Rebecca and the Doctor, into the police box.  
  
The Doctor grinned at Rebecca, stepping into the doorway of the TARDIS. "Don't worry," he said. "We're not going anywhere quite yet."  
  
He disappeared inside.  
  
* * *  
  
Jules felt much better the next morning. Passepartout had kindly lent him his bed in the lab, and he'd left some clothes on the Aurora the last time he'd spent time on her. He would have to remember to leave some more clothes here the next time.  
  
He came downstairs to find Passepartout at his regular spot at the airship controls, Fogg standing at the observation window with a teacup in his hand, and the Doctor and Rebecca sitting close together at the table, in the middle of what appeared to be a very animated discussion.  
  
"Ah, Jules," Rebecca grinned when she saw the young man come down the stairs. "You look much better this morning."  
  
"Thank you," Jules smiled, "I think." He looked around the room. "Where's Marc?" he questioned.  
  
"Oh, in the TARDIS still," the Doctor said, nodding toward his ship, which was taking up rather a lot of room in the middle of the cabin. "I didn't feel a need to wake her yet."  
  
Jules nodded but still looked preoccupied. He wasn't looking forward to this good-bye. After spending so much time in such close quarters with the young woman, he found he'd grown to know her well. And he found he didn't want to lose a dear friend.  
  
He joined Fogg at the window, trying to make out exactly where they were. "We were wondering," Phileas said quietly, "if we should drop you off in Paris."  
  
Jules looked up at him, a sharp sideways glance that he directed quickly back out the window. "No," he said, struggling to keep his tone light, unconcerned. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go on to London with you."  
  
Phileas also stared out the window. "Why didn't you write, Verne? I know Rebecca was certainly getting worried. Not very fair of you."  
  
Jules suppressed a smile, knowing very well that it wasn't just Rebecca who had worried. He was flattered despite himself; he knew Fogg counted him a friend, but it was always gratifying to have proof of it. "I don't know," he answered aloud. "I was being foolish. I'm sorry, Fogg."  
  
"No matter," Phileas replied lightly. "Just see that it doesn't happen again, won't you?"  
  
Verne smiled. "Yes, Phileas," he said.  
  
They both heard a door open behind them, and they turned around to see Marc coming out of the strange blue box. Phileas blinked. Jules looked dumbfounded.  
  
She'd thoroughly washed her hair, and it was back to its usual glossy sheen. The bags were gone from under her eyes, and instead of the vibrant, exotic turquoise that Jules had gotten used to and almost found mundane by the end of their time in the cell, her eyes were a muddy brown that was almost more shocking. And they were covered in glasses with almost nonexistent silver frames. She wore a long-sleeved white shirt, buttons rather than cufflinks at the cuffs, with a dark purple suede vest, black trousers, and the same black boots she'd been wearing for the past week or so. Jules almost didn't recognize her.  
  
"Hi," she said, giving them all a wave. She looked embarassed for some reason, and suddenly Jules realized it was the glasses. He walked over to join her by the TARDIS.  
  
"Hello," he said, smiling diffidently. "How do you feel?"  
  
She smiled and stretched. "Much better. How 'bout you?"  
  
"Good," he said and hesitated. She beat him to it.  
  
"I told you I'm from the future," she said. "I hated all those skirts getting in the way." She heard a snort from Rebecca's direction and shared an understanding look with the older woman. "As for the glasses..." She slipped them off and wished she wasn't blushing. "Brown's such a dull color, isn't it?"  
  
"No," Jules replied quietly, with a gentle smile. "I like it."  
  
She met his eye, quirking her eyebrows up, thinking she was being teased. She gave him a smile when she realized she wasn't and slipped her glasses back on.  
  
"Well," the Doctor said, standing up and drawing everyone's attention back to him. "Marc and I really ought to be going now."  
  
"Why?" Rebecca asked simply, looking up from her where she still sat.  
  
"Everything's sorted out. For now," the Doctor replied. "And I hate to outstay my welcome."  
  
Fogg snorted, turning back to the window. Rebecca glared at her cousin's back before standing up and facing the Doctor. "You haven't worn out your welcome," she told him with a flash of a gentle smile. "Will we get to see you again?"  
  
"Perhaps," the Doctor said. He paused, then reached out to take Rebecca's hand and kiss it. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Rebecca," he said. He looked over at Fogg. "And you, Mr Fogg," he called.  
  
Phileas swung back to face the others, then strode up to the Doctor to shake his hand. He didn't say anything. The Doctor smiled and turned to Jules. "Good-bye Jules. Lovely to see you again. Good-bye, Mr Passepartout," the Time Lord added as he joined the manservant by the airship controls, vigorously shaking the little Frenchman's hand. "I'd always wanted to meet you," he added in a confidential whisper before walking away.  
  
Marc smirked at her friend. "You too, huh?" she said to him before speaking herself to the manservant. "Thank you," she said sincerely, "and it was nice to meet you." She turned to the cousins, shaking Rebecca's hand (which caused Rebecca and Jules some slight amusement), and being thoroughly delighted when Phileas kissed her hand. "Thank you both as well," she told them. "You guys rock."  
  
"Thank you," Rebecca said. She glanced at Fogg, raising an acerbic eyebrow. He shrugged. "I think."  
  
At last Marc turned to Jules. He held his hand out awkwardly to shake hers, and an irresistible smile spread itself across Marc's face before she started laughing. She threw her arms around the young Frenchman. He hugged her back soundly.  
  
She took a step back, still holding his hands. "I'm gonna miss you, Jules Verne," she said. "You keep being sweet, okay? And don't forget those card games."  
  
"Card games?" Phileas said with a slight laugh. "Verne's terrible at cards."  
  
"Careful, Fogg," Jules said without taking his eyes away from Marc. "She might offer to play with you. And you wouldn't believe how she cheats." Marc grinned cheekily and whacked him playfully on the arm.  
  
"Take care of yourself, Marc," Jules said. "Get back to your future."  
  
"Don't you worry about me," she replied. "We've both got our futures to look forward to." On an impulse, she leant forward to kiss him on the cheek, then stepped back, shamelessly enjoying his embarrassed look. She glanced around at the others in the cabin, then nodded and slipped into the TARDIS.  
  
"Doctor," Phileas stopped the Time Lord following his companion inside. He stepped up to the Doctor, keeping his words low so only they would hear. "Why did you stop me killing Count Gregory?"  
  
"It wasn't his day to die," the Doctor told him calmly, blinking up at the taller man. "I'm sure we'll both meet up with him again."  
  
Fogg nodded and stepped back. The Doctor smiled round at them all and closed the door behind him.  
  
The Foggs, Jules, and Passepartout waited, curiously wondering what would happen next. An unearthly sound filled the cabin, almost deafening in the small space, and the large blue box faded gradually out of reality.  
  
There was a thoughtful pause.  
  
"Well," Phileas said, turning to his manservant. "Take us home, Passepartout." 


End file.
